


The Substitute.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: F/M, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baby Hiddles losses interest for anything scholarly when one of his teachers is on a leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Substitute.

From the tip of his head to the tip of his other head (he’s fairly sure there’s no blood left anywhere downwards his balls) Tom can feel the rhythmic clicking of those unmistakeably dress-code infringing heels pulse through him in sync with his heartbeats. Teacher or not, the bitch’s got another thing coming if she thinks she’s getting away with those without justified chastisement - the only problem seems to be that he’s not the one in the position to give it. Decidedly, he’d gladly get into said position and many more others – Tom prides himself in being exceptionally fit – should he be summoned to; it is, after all, the only idea incubating his greatly affected brain at the moment. He can’t seriously be expected to pay attention to what she’s saying when that rack of hers needs no further explanation but maybe just a tiny bit looser bra for fear of it spilling out of the constricting undergarment and yet not because oh, how he’d like to shove his nose right in that awfully tight crevice and die squished between those beautiful, ripe breasts. It starts torrentially raining in Tom’s mouth as he imagines biting and sucking on the brown skin of one nipple and pinching on the other making her pant and moan and squirm, her body throbbing for more, her pride sealing the plump flesh of her moist lips. Her legs would be open, accommodating his expanding midsection, garters twisting uncomfortably against the robust thighs, exposed as the curve hugging black skirt would’ve gathered at her hips. Black lingerie all the way. Lacy. He’d fuck her dressed at first and then have her take it all off for him, swaying and bending, gradually revealing the luscious roundness of her womanly form, to be worshiped by his eyes and then by his hands. Until then, though, he’d have her as she is, whole but not fully, still ignorant of what lay underneath the tight fabric of her clothing.

He’d take his time revelling in the eagerness of her mouth, her core perpetually inching further as he pulls back, teasing, testing her patience until her weight would be partly supported by the edge of the desk and primarily by his arms. He’d dig his teeth into her lip and his nails into the abundant rear until he’d have left marks on both and laugh as she’d groan against his mouth. Then he’d kneel. He’d kneel both to her and to Providence for spawning such creature as she was, obstinate in her resistance to his speech, yet so helplessly responsive to his touch, the moist fabric covering her vulva irrefutable testimony to this simple fact. Change of plans – he’d go down on her. How could he have not seriously considered it when her whimpers promise themselves to be so exquisitely rewarding and her cunt presents itself to be all but edible once he pulls the panties off, baring the skin he’d longed to see most.

The air in the room would substantiate, become palpable; even now he can feel it brushing against him, bristling his skin, heavy with the most basic of desires and the guarantee of their fulfilment. Tom would tease the exposed skin, but only for the briefest of moments before opening the slick folds and mercilessly plunging tongue first into the pink velvet of her cunt, elbows pinning her down in a necessary effort to subside the aggressive squirms. He’d bring her close to release, tantalizingly denying her it more than once. He’d have her ultimately beg, the meat on her bones trembling in inarticulate frenzy for more, for _all_ , and only then he’d give himself to her, balls heavy and tight. He’d fuck her through her climax, barely concealed cries and pulsing insides drawing his own out of him.

It’s only several years later that he actually gets to do these things, when by chance he spots her in a pub with a couple of other women, sipping on drinks chromatically coordinated with their lipsticks, giggling in harmony loud enough to make themselves noticed but not obnoxious. He saunters over to her, head to toe in designer, head to toe the movie star, the scholar, the sex symbol. The flicker in her eyes, immediate, is that of recognition. Not like the others’. It’s not only from Elle that she knows him, but from a time long gone, when her breasts were perkier and his face cherubic rather than predatory, with blonde curls to match. Those days have set when his cheekbones rose, though, and with many months’ experience in an industry so cutthroat as the one in which he dispenses she can bet her sweet ass that the probability of him being as innocent as he’s made out to be by what surely is an army of PR workers is just as valid as the one of Slash scoring the next instalment of Finding Nemo.

It does comes as a surprise the fact that, despite having nights on end pleasured herself to the image of corrupting the young then-student, this consolidated boldness of his conduct sits well with her.

Tonight she’ll get whatever she can get.


End file.
